I have always wondered what is the purest form of love.
Whether it is the poet's unrequited love in their ballads or the artist's muse who lingers from afar.
Or is it the voice that laments things that could never be?
What has become my truth, which was once my ruination, is that the purest form of love is the illusion of importance in their life.
For my value is but a grain of salt, but you, my dear, were once the vast ocean, now run dry.
My perfect ruin was my own mind.
How poetic.